


The Weight of a Shadow

by thealphagate_archivist



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-26
Updated: 2006-03-26
Packaged: 2019-02-02 16:26:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12730110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealphagate_archivist/pseuds/thealphagate_archivist
Summary: Jack shares a memory from his past with Daniel and with you.





	The Weight of a Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the archivists: this story was originally archived at [The Alpha Gate](https://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Alpha_Gate), a Stargate SG-1 archive, which began migration to the AO3 in 2017 when its hosting software, eFiction, was no longer receiving support. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are this creator and it hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Alpha Gate collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/thealphagate).

  
Author's notes: Bring tissues.   


* * *

He was out cold and sprawled face-down across the bed. 

The bedroom was cool and the chill in the air nudged into his subconscious; the draft that was touching across the skin of his back was insistent, prodding him to leave his dream. Daniel shivered; stirring a hand out from under his pillow to stretch blindly across the sheets, his fingers in hopeful search of the warmth of his lover's body. "Jack?" His question sent out sleepily as he fought his way up to something approaching awake, realizing through the fog that he was alone. "Ja-ack?" He squinted into the dark; the mattress under his searching hand empty except for the rumpled sheets, which had been thrown back, leaving that side of the bed holding only the residual essence of someone who should have been laying there too. "Jack?" A little louder; but there was no response to his call, and he rolled over and pushed himself up on his elbows to peer into the dimness, the room a host of black shadows, none of them in movement.

Daniel glanced at the clock on the night stand; almost 3am - early - that thought in response to the blur of numbers. He'd remembered going to bed around midnight with the echo of Jack's voice coming at him from out of the den, words sent to reassure that he'd be following soon--and he had, much later. But Daniel couldn't remember just when, - he'd literally passed out - surfacing briefly only to the touch of Jack's hands as they gently massaged into the muscles of his back, the warmth of those fingertips sending his body onward into deeper sleep. And somewhere, in those seconds, right before he'd surrendered totally to a dream, the tenderness of Jack's lips were there on the nape of his neck--the love given then and still a bond he felt now. 

Where are you Jack? That thought as he listened to the quiet of the house, rubbing absently at the back of his neck, fingertips tracing the memory, tracing Jack. He sat up, his body reluctantly acknowledging that vague emptiness that always seemed to hit hard whenever his lover wasn't there; hating that waking up in the night to find him gone ache that always sank a knot of dread into the well of his stomach. But he knew Jack had to be nearby - they were home. 

He threw back the sheets and swung his legs over the side of the bed, the coldness of the floor a sharpness beneath his feet - a sudden prompt into wakefulness. He stumbled away from the bed, feeling with outstretched hands for the wall, checking the bathroom before he headed out of the door. The wood railing along the landing directing him towards the stairs and he tentatively searched, with his toes, for the top step, waiting there until his eyes finally adjusted. Then he peered down the stairway, seeing the green glow of the clock in the kitchen, its illumination just a blurry night light that cast eerie shadows out into the hallway. 

The house was calm, moonlight shafting in through the shadeless windows, its beam sending a mosaic of odd shapes to cover the floor below. "Jack?" His voice sent out again, still husky with sleep, listening in the dark for sounds. Then he made his way slowly down the steps into the silence of the hallway, plodding blindly into the spare bedroom - checking - knowing that Jack would sometimes sleep there, his only thought not to disturb by taking his restlessness away from their bed. Jack's nightmares always came unannounced, and most times he preferred to just fight them alone. 

Then the fog across his mind cleared and Daniel knew that he was walking a familiar pattern, wandering through the dark of their house, drifting from room to room, looking for his lover in the shadows. Remembering other nights when he'd awake to the touch of Jack's hand, his lover needing to be held until some dark memory had receded to that place where he kept them all safely hidden. And every so often, Jack would just want to talk something out and Daniel would be there, to give him the security of his arms in the cover of darkness to say words that he didn't want to say in the light of day. The dark always seemed to take away all the harsh edges.

But the spare bedroom was empty, with only the rumpled blanket a signature that said Jack had been there. 

Daniel turned towards the hallway, catching the glint of glass from the open patio doors and the sight of the lonely outline brought an ache to his heart and to the figure sitting resolute in the moonlight. He stood still and watched for a moment, then weaved his way carefully around the coffee table, feeling the cool early morning breeze brush up against his body as he made his way towards the doors. He shivered; the bare skin of his chest reacting to that coolness and he instinctively wrapped his arms across his ribs as he approached that strong back sitting quietly in front of him. 

Jack - a solid silhouette with feet propped up on the wood railing; two boots crossed at the ankle, the stretch of his legs covered in faded fatigues. That image sent a spark, and Daniel couldn't decide right then what he liked more - being loved by Jack O'Neill or being in love with him. 

"Hey," He stepped outside with his word, his hands coming to rest on Jack's shoulders, glad to offer a massage through the sweatshirt, kneading into the tight muscles, warming them with his attention and letting Jack know that he was there. "Missed you." Said as his hand slid under Jack's chin and nudged his head back so that he could punctuate that statement with a kiss to a crinkled forehead.

That brought a smile and Jack voiced contentment beneath Daniel's touch, "Couldn't sleep." That was no surprise.

"You okay?" Asked with a crease of his eyebrows as Daniel edged around the chair to lean up against the railing next to the boots, a fist tapping gently at the nearest ankle, knowing that no matter what Jack said, he wasn't okay. 

"Yeah." Spoken a little too softly to be fully convincing, "Just thinking. y'know how much I hate doing that." His smile weak, his voice tired but still that light in his eyes remained bright, the mind behind them alive and active and always in control.

"Feel like talking?" Daniel shivered; the breeze from the lake kicking up behind him and he snaked his arms tighter around his belly. "I'm awake now," said with a smile as he hunched his shoulders against the cold.

"Feel like lis'nin?" Jack leaned forward and pulled his sweatshirt off, "Here." He stretched out and gave the warmth of it to his lover, ".before you freeze your ass off and Fraiser has my ass for allowing that to happen."

Daniel gave up another smile with his thanks, the sweatshirt warm and still holding the rugged smell of the wood smoke from their evening by the fire. "Want coffee?" Said as he pushed himself off the rail, stepping in close.

"Nah." Jack's voice was thoughtful as he reached out to hook the tips of his fingers around Daniel's thumb, staring out across the lake he suddenly asked, "Ever feel like maybe you never happened?" 

"Huh?" Daniel heard the words but they surprised him - he hadn't expected Jack to say that. 

"Y'know. like maybe you don't exist."

"I don't understand." Daniel closed his hand around Jack's fingers, the squeeze there and reassuring, "What're you saying?" knowing instinctively that they needed to talk, that he needed to listen, more importantly knowing that he wanted to listen.

"Know what it's like to not only live a secret but to be a secret?" Jack looked up at his lover, "Know what that means? It means you don't exist. It means you never happened."

"It doesn't mean that Jack." Daniel shivered again, recognizing that Jack was drilling down.

"Yeah? Well what does it mean?" Jack sank back against the chair, "Half my friggin' life's been classified fer chrissake. And I'm not talking about the Stargate program." The grip on Daniel's hand got stronger, "What d'you call it if you can't talk about what you've done? What you've been asked to do? What you've seen?" The coolness of the breeze came in with his words. "How could you say that you ever happened?" The look said it all, "No one knows about me Daniel. 'cept you."

"What's bothering you?' Daniel offered up a smile, encouraging.

Jack shrugged, "Sometimes. sights just circle your nights endlessly, like the fin of a shark."

"Nightmare?" 

"I guess. Just an old one that won't rest."

"Come on the couch with me .'kay? I'm cold." He prompted Jack, pulling him to his feet, dragging him indoors. "Talk to me." said as he grabbed at an Indian blanket draped over the back of the chair and sank gratefully into the warmth of the corner cushions.

Jack stabbed at the embers of the fire, the poker sparking up a flare of heat. "Sometimes. y'know. some memories just won't leave me alone. Don't know why they keep comin' round. they just do." Jack shook his head slowly and headed off to the kitchen in search of coffee for Daniel.

"Something happen today?" Daniel shot the question into the kitchen.

"Nah. Nothin' unusual. Just." he stood over Daniel, the coffee mug extended, "It's kinda stale." His apology wrapped in a smile. "Sometimes.. something'll just hit me and keep me awake." Jack rolled onto the couch, his head coming to rest against Daniel's chest." Can't sleep 'cause. I keep seeing somethin' I don't want to."

"Wanna tell me about it?"

"Nope." His hand covering Daniel's, pressing both into his chest, then following his initial resolve hesitantly with a, "May-be." 

"This coffee sucks by the way." Said as he found a home for the discarded cup on the end-table nearby, adding, "May-be?" Before wrapping his arms tightly around Jack, 

"Maybe it sucks?"

"No. It definitely sucks. Maybe you'll tell me?"

"Can't. Classified shit."

"So-o?"

"Not supposed to talk about that stuff. I'd be on everyone's shitlist if they ever found out."

"They? Who the hell are they Jack? "

"You know. the Boyz down on the farm."

"Oh! The-em." Daniel tapped the top of Jack's head with his chin, rubbing at it affectionately "Yeah... like I'm in tight with those guys." 

Jack stretched out and pushed himself deeper into Daniel's warmth, exchanging with him some of his own. The house was quiet, the moonlight still shafting in through the patio doors - the breeze from the lake sweeping in around the one left ajar, the sweet fragrance in the air from the morning dew. They stayed together like that for a long while, just enjoying the last light from the fire and the heat that was coming from the blanket that wrapped them both. 

Then Jack rubbed his head slowly across Daniel's chest, 'Sometimes. when I can't sleep. it's because maybe there's a hard memory." Jack let go of a long slow breath, "Let's say that this is the saddest thing you ever saw."

* * *

Let's say you were a stranger in a strange land, which wasn't unusual because that was part of the job, it's what you did, it's what you were trained to do, and that you were in this place that had already been violently abused for several years - again, not an unusual thing. You were there uninvited; moving silently through this country that was far from the idea of western civilization, and even further from the ideals of western morality. 

Maybe you were there looking for someone or something, just another job, your latest mission, and you'd been inserted into this country in the quiet of a night several long days before. You were alone because that was frequently the safest on this kind of mission, not just for you but for everyone else, and you were on edge because this particular area of the country was barren. It was winter and cover was tough, and you'd already endured several days of shelling; slipping silently beneath their radar because that was also what you did to get to where you were supposed to be, and where staying out of sight meant the difference between staying alive and not. 

It was cold where you were so maybe you were thinking about food, and sleep, and dry socks and how far you still had to go. Maybe you came through the barrens to the edge of a village, to what had been someone's house; a lonely gray structure in a backdrop of a gray landscape all touched by a gray mourning sky. Only now, this house was just another kind of shell, an empty one because it had already exploded - the broken windows and half-roof looking like just another silent scream in a country whose national anthem had morphed long ago into one endless silent scream. 

But maybe this house was different from all the others because there was a woman in what used to be the front yard. But tanks and heavy trucks had turned what might have once been her garden into a tumble of raw blocks where their tracks and wide treads had compacted the clay into bricks that, from a vantage point above the earth, looked zippered. A zigzag map of callousness lain down by an army that was too blind in its destruction to take the time to distinguish between those who were the innocents; an invading army driven by a collective hate that considered every living thing in this country as nothing more than another object in an environment filled with, in their eyes, living inanimate objects. And maybe you knew that the truth of it was that their basic mandate was just simple indiscriminate annihilation of all human life. And maybe that was one of the reasons you were there, because somewhere deep inside you, protecting the innocents is what you chose to do - protecting them because they couldn't do it for themselves. 

So you notice - because that's also something that you do, you assess each situation for the minute details, for the hidden threats, because your skill in observation has keep you alive on more than one occasion. So you notice - that the woman's clothes are all tattered, but more importantly that there are no weapons. You see that her dress is just an odd collection of rags that had once been real garments, but that are now pulled on in layers with maybe her thought to retain a little warmth around her fragile frame. You notice that there are mud covered scarves tied around her feet, wrapping up over her ankles and legs, disappearing beneath a torn coat that was many sizes too big. You notice that under the mud, the coat appeared to be military; a non-descript drab-olive with one pocket torn off and the flap of its material still clinging by a thread, waving to you with her movements. You notice that, despite the cold, her hands are without gloves, dirt caking beneath the dark nails and on the back of one hand there is a streak of blood - from a scratch - you think. You notice that her hair is scattering around in the icy wind, a lifeless stringy canopy blowing unheeded across a face that maybe had beauty in someone's eyes. You notice that her life, that what may have been herself, has been raped by the ravages of this senseless and never-ending war. And you notice that you feel everything and that you feel nothing as you silently watch this skeleton draped by the remnants of some sorrow, a transparent frailty beneath the weight of her burden. 

She's focused and she doesn't see you.

Maybe this was what you were used to, not being seen, but you were careful anyway, because not only did she not see you she didn't appear to see anything beyond what she was doing. She was kneeling down, she was building something, it looked like a tiny house - like a doghouse - you think. She was stacking pieces of her house, maybe a board from a splintered door, part of a window frame, perhaps half of a cabinet, and she was singing. You could hear her high voice, the sounds blowing your way in the breeze. You knew some of the language because that's part of what you do, part of how you can be there and blend in, so you know it's a lullaby that she's singing and that maybe she's singing to whatever is in that shelter. You can't see yet because you're still too far away.

Then you feel - in the soles of your boots, understand? - the approaching vehicles, before you actually hear them. It's just another one of those tricks that you've learned, one of those tricks that have kept you alive. So you feel them, that deep rumble that travels through the earth just below the surface, and at the same time you understand that she's not right, because maybe she's seen too much of the world but - whatever it is, there is some vital part of her that is no longer in the here and now and so she can't protect herself. You know that she can't and you know in your gut that she won't. 

She's vacant, oblivious to all things around her.

Then she stands up and looks at what she's done, and then she frowns and darts away to the rubble of the house. You think good, she understands the danger and she's leaving, so you get up slowly and move through the yard because by now you can hear the heavy motors and that means they're too damned close and you really need to get moving yourself. You can't be caught, not here, not now, because your mission is vital and completing it successfully is the prime directive. It's your prime directive; you do it because it could make the difference. You do it and get yourself home. 

So you move lithely across the torn earth, your intent to move on, to remain unseen. Then you see her in the house through one of the yawning squares that used to be a window, and she's looking for something, still frowning in her concentration and you think - damn, she's not leaving at all, is she. But still you have to move on, because the tanks are getting much closer and your presence in this land is not sanctioned by anyone here.

Then you know for sure that's she not leaving, when you cross the yard and you see what she's been doing.

She's building this shelter, see? She's sheltering - because it's raining and the mud is terrible, it freezes into crazy shapes, and you can tell from the dried brick of tracks that the tanks and heavy tires have already come through this yard many times before, tearing up the earth in their violent disregard. So you know, instinctively, that she's sheltering something valuable and that she can't protect herself anymore or maybe she doesn't want to because here she is, working out in the open, insensible to the approaching danger, but this shelter holds something that she's compelled to stay and protect.

Then you see as you step closer - the footprints in the mud. 

Tiny footprints of a child, and you guess, it's somewhere around three - old enough to walk but just barely. You glance quickly around the yard, but there's no child in sight and the realization hits you and now you wished you hadn't looked at it at all. 

Because the footprints are all that are left, and you react to the sound of a twig snapping because here she comes out of the house with the back of a chair, and you realize then that she's never leaving, that she just went in to get more wood. Maybe she sees you near her shelter and she raises the chair-back at you, vaguely, like a weapon, but you stand calmly and non-threateningly and she lowers it because it's worth much more to her as a building element anyway. And besides, maybe she's had enough of weapons and maybe there's no weapon now that can hurt her more than she already hurts.

Maybe you step back with your palms up a bit, gently you remain there and watch as she places the back of the chair against her little shelter; her little barrier against the tanks and the trucks that wont care, because they'll blow right over those pieces of wood and maybe she knows this, but this is all she's got and all she can do is try and save those precious footprints. Maybe those footprints are like the shadows on Plato's cave; only for her they're all that's left of what used to be her life.

You know you can't take her with you and even if you could you know that she wouldn't come, and even though you know enough of the language, your words are useless to her, there's nothing you can possibly say. 

So you leave her, alone in the wilderness, singing her lullaby into the small shelter that embraces the loving memory of her child; its soul captured by the impression of a tiny set of footprints that now support only the weight of its fading shadow.

Then you move on, leaving her far behind you, knowing that the tanks will be there soon - knowing that the tiny shelter will be wiped away and that another life will disappear into the gray mud; her hushed scream, one more innocent voice, lost in a cacophony of deafening silence. And maybe you think that's what she really wanted. Maybe you have to think that because you had no other choice but to move on, slipping back into the security of your own fading shadow, unseen and moving quietly through their lives - lives that were empty, lives that had lost all life. And even although your life doesn't belong there, you leave a small part of yourself behind - the print of your foot, holding the signature of your shadow left in the mud of their turmoil that says the reason you chose to be there was quite simply because you cared. And maybe you believed that your touch could make the difference - because maybe you knew in your heart that you had made the difference. 

And maybe the end really does justify the means because when all is said and done the innocents will be saved, if not today by you, then tomorrow by someone else who believes, just as strongly as you do, that fighting on the side of right is never wrong.

But later, after you've found what you came for and did what you were supposed to do, you went home and as usual you couldn't sleep and you'd sit out on your porch and watch the mist rise off the lake on a quiet autumn morning. And maybe you had wanted to tell someone back then but there wasn't anyone to tell, because that moment had no strategic importance to your mission; it didn't belong in a report and it felt too fragile to talk about face-to-face, like it might shatter beneath the weight of the spoken word. So no-one knew about it and it weighed on you - until now.

Then someone touches you in a place that has never been touched before and he says -'Tell me, you can trust me, I'm safe'. 

So you do.

* * *

Daniel pulled Jack in tight to his body and they dropped into sleep as the sun came up through the windows, its light finding them tangled together in the security their love afforded. Jack's memory now shared, the telling of it finally banishing a sorrow that had been felt so deeply by a man, whose heart, was never expected to be touched by something as fragile as the weight of an innocent's shadow. 

But it was.

He was.


End file.
